The Book of British Filth
by Pasta with Glass
Summary: Insanity is everywhere these days. Especially in the kitchen. Private diary of Arthur Kirkland - keep out!


As it turns out, turning twenty three is the turning point in someone's life where they start receiving really shit gifts off people. It's in the Bible; Alfred swore by it before he passed out in the puddle of jelly and ice cream. I wouldn't really have minded receiving this small book off Francis, if it hadn't been the same one his ex-girlfriend shoved up his ass last valentines day. I showed my gratitude by hitting him in the balls with it before stomping off to my room to sulk.

Those assholes couldn't even muster up enough love for just one day. And no, Ludwig putting on his leopard print thong doesn't count. I mean, what the fuck am I supposed to do with a pack of sanitary towels?! I suppose I could give them to Kiku, he should be starting his period soon.

I don't even know what I'm supposed to write in this thing. Feliciano sucked all the ink out of my pens so I had to borrow one of Alfred's pink ones. I hear them calling me downstairs, but alas, I am not listening. Maybe they'll think I've died of neglect and will feel so guilty they'll cut off their own balls and sell them for funeral money. We can only live in hope.

We all live in the same house and there's seven of us. I don't think I even need to tell you there's no fuckin' privacy, even for a large house with three storeys. Francis seems to be keeping an ear out because he bursts into my room.

"Are you not coming down?" He asks. "We're just starting a game." I look at him.

"Why the fuck would I want to play a game with you, ass-bag?" I snap. He raises his hands into the air.

"Fine, don't then. No need to get snappy about it!" he replies in that delightful accent of his, before looking around my room. "I knew you'd say no, anyway. I just wanted to know if you had any of that strawberry lotion left."

I stare at him, all sorts of freaky thoughts running through my head, but I decide not to question him. I purposely exclude myself from these sorts of activities so I don't have to return to therapy. I've been doing so well, I don't want to ruin it now.

"Not since Alfred decided to use the whole fuckin' bottle," I mutter, putting my book down on the bed. A nasty, shit-eating grins spreads across Francis's face.

"Ah, so you do like my present after all?" He says, eyeing the book as if it was a chocolate covered dildo.

"No!" I reply, far too quickly as Francis's smirk only seems to grow. "No-I just thought it would be put to better use in my care than up your ass. At least now it won't be full of shit."

"If you're writing about your life it will be!" He cackles as he leaves the room, laughing at his own joke like he's the funniest fuckin' guy on the planet. Damn. I begin to question why I even live with him.

Oh yeah. I remember.

I was given him as a gift from someone.

I suppose I should try and fill this book with something useful. If I ever become successful, this thing could be sold for a lot of money. I don't particularly want the British public reading about how many stress tablets I take a day, or what interesting new colour Feliciano has discovered in his shit.

Feliciano is the youngest out of all of us. That seems to make him the women's favourite. Oh yeah, he's all smiles and blushes and washed hair when he's surrounded by a group of middle aged women who tug at his hair, discussing how "adorable his is", but as soon as they're gone, he turns into this sticky blob of bad habits and insistent whining.

Just imagine my surprise the other day when I return home to a house void of the Italian, just a silent American who was supposed to be baby-sitting him. Alfred shrugged and avoided my gaze, hands in his lap like a scolded child and I knew then it was serious. Alfred is NEVER silent. Even in his sleep he's up trying to have jolly conversations with the neighbour's dog. After searching the streets for Feliciano, I finally find him trapped inside a bin, dressed in a baby's bib and bonnet, the confused look on his face causing dribble to fall around the dummy in his mouth. Turns out, I had come just in time to prevent him being swept away by the bin men. Needless to say I had a hard time trying to explain myself for having a baby roughly the size of a 20 year old man sitting casually in a bin.

When I finally managed to get us back home, I put Alfred on bin duty for the rest of the month and personally made sure that he cleaned Feliciano thoroughly with his tongue. That tongue's touched many things in it's time, but I don't think he's ever had a meal quite like that one.

Alfred is just a little older than Feliciano and a complete fatass. He even has a certificate hung up in his room proving it so. An achievement of eating 30 burgers in under 3 minutes. That's not an achievement, that's a fuckin' diet.

He says it's from school, but I suspect he just printed it off a website to get us all to stop teasing him. It hasn't yet worked. No fiddly bit of paper is going to get us all celebrating his flabby butt cheeks any time soon.

I'm so cruel, but he deserves it. I give him a home and he doesn't even work to pay for it. Many times we've all tried taking him to work with us but he just ends up getting stuck in places it was just obvious he wasn't going to fit. There was a time where I locked him in the house because I thought him alone would cause congestion on the streets. I suppose he's lost a lot of weight since then; he's practically one of us. But that doesn't excuse his laziness.

Francis is like my arch-nemesis - and trust me, there is _nothing_ like living with your arch-nemesis. Sadly, it doesn't even end there. He's a grade A pervert. That's all that needs to be said. You'd think with his sexual history he'd be a stripper or earning special favours around the house, but nope, he works at a call centre.

There, he works with Ivan, a Russian man who's mostly silent and keeps to himself. I think I can relate to him more than anyone else in this damn house because at least he's quiet. It just so happens he also packs a punch. It's an argument you've immediately won if you have him nearby to call upon. I have won many battles that way. I'm not weak, I just haven't yet mastered the art of punching Francis square in the face when he's midsentence.

Then there's Kiku, who's also almost silent, which makes him a perfect target for teasing. It's just a shame there isn't much to tease him on. But I warn you now that if ever he's in a bad mood, leave him the fuck alone. No, seriously, I mean it. If you walk into a room, giving him a lazy slap over the head as you go, and he glares at you, just keep calm, don't breathe, and back out slowly with no sudden movements. He might just let you live. I know that one from experience.

No, he's not a violent bully. The physical pain is just a little something extra if you've been a complete douche. A bit like putting cheese on some of your meals. However, he knows _everything_ about you. We don't know how he does it, but he knows all about your past and on what day you plan on clipping your toenails, just - I'm guessing - from looking around your room when you're not there.

Feliciano got it into his head that he got all this information from inspecting our socks. Sometimes, dealing with your past can be hard enough without an annoying Italian with the mental age of 3 waving smelly socks in your face, telling you that you had a mum that sweat a lot and died horrifically due to an untreated case of athlete's foot.

Kiku uses this information to hurt you. I mean, _really_ hurt you. Unfortunately for him, he can only muster up such insults when he's in a bad mood, and that isn't often. So, if you should ever come across this strange Japanese man, just wait a couple of hours, then wreak your revenge.

Last but not least in this hell-hole is Ludwig, a German with a short temper. We all like to play a game of who can wind him up the most without causing him to explode. When that happens, you know you've lost because, well...you're dead. I mean literally.

He thinks we don't know but, when Ludwig was 8, he was playing in the school playground, when another boy whom we believe to be named Thomas, approached him and they started to play soldiers. What happened is still a mystery. There's a rumour that Thomas attempted to steal the toys, and another that says he accidently broke one of them. And...there's one that says that Ludwig tried the moves on with this kid, but was resisted...no fuckin' prizes for guessing who came up with that one.

Anyway, all they found of Thomas was a 8 year old boy shaped singe in the ground. And he's presumably the last person to see Ludwig actually explode. We all have to scarper before we get caught in the blast. I don't know why we even play it. It's obvious one day one of us is going to perish, and I'm hoping it's Francis.

...

I'm sat lounging on the sofa watching some kind of psychic programme. I'm just thinking how cool it would be if I could have sixth sense when my thoughts are interrupted by Francis bursting into the room, arms aloft like he thinks he's fuckin' John Travolta or something causing Kiku to knock over his nail varnish in surprise.

"I have...an appearance on TV!" he announces proudly. There's a pause.

"D'you hear that Francis? It's the sound of nobody-gives-a-shit. It's called silence." I say. He punches me hard in the shoulder before falling into an armchair.

"It sounds like jealousy to me," he smirks. Ivan, with admirable timing, decides to walk into the room at this point.

"It's for that new documentary, isn't it?" He says. "England's most deviant sexual predators?" I begin to laugh. Hard. Francis becomes red in the face.

"No!" He shouts, jumping up. "The woman told me it was for the sexiest male!"

"Time to get a hearing test, Francis!" Okay, it was a stupid line, but I was laughing so much I don't think anyone understood me anyway.

"I'm not even English!" Francis moaned. Too right he's fuckin' not; there's no intellectual rivalry for me in this house. Being the only Englishman it's to be expected.

I notice Kiku isn't laughing and I look over at him. Instead he's sobbing his eyes out trying desperately to rub the nail varnish stain out of the carpet. I don't blame him, if I got shit all over Ludwig's carpets I'd cry too. Once I tripped Alfred and the cake he'd been eating landed right in front of Ludwig's feet. Let's just say we never saw that cake again. Poor Alfred was pissing white frosting for weeks.


End file.
